And All That Jazz
by Keridwen89
Summary: When the body of former detective Ricky Donovan comes into the morgue clutching an old yellowing journal, Jordan and Nigel's interest is sparked. They are whisked back to 1927 to solve the murder Det. Donovan carried with him his whole life. **UPDATED: A story 6 years in the making. Please ignore my childish Author's Notes in Chapters 1-5.**
1. Consideration

**A/N: Good morning!****Yes that's right, folks, simultaneous fics! **

**This is also a group fic. Though a completely different group fic to "I'll Be Watching You" This fic has been extensively planned and un-plot holed and really really considered carefully and - well it's been in the making for about months now and we've only just begun writing the actual fic itself. It is also different in that there are only three of us working on it so it should flow better than "I'll Be Watching You."**

**The three of us writing it are: Lilyjnr (Carlie) Forensic Paws (Elsa) and me, all from the really cool forum, http/charmedscripts.tv/cj**

**You'll see where it's all going once you read. :P**

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**Chapter 1: Consideration**

"Where are you, Jordan?" an irritated Garret barked over the phone to her. She was in her car, trying to juggle both her scalding hot coffee and her hands-free cell phone, and failing as she drove along the road at a steadily decreasing pace.  
"On my way to…" she paused and looked down at the piece of paper she had scribbled the address on and rattled it off to her boss.  
"Okay," he said, obviously impatient to get off the phone. "Hurry up, we have a tonne to do."  
"Its days like these you wish people would be considerate and not die, isn't it?" she said dryly.  
"You're breaking up," he said, just as sardonically, muttered a farewell and hung up the phone.  
When she had arrived at her destination, she climbed gingerly out of her car, still sore from a night sleeping on her couch. She had done so because, silly thing that she was, she had spilt water all over her bed and couldn't be bothered changing the sheets. Rolling her neck and shoulders, she scanned the place with her eyes.  
"Morning doctor," a young man bounced out in front of her, causing her to jump back in momentary shock.  
"Detective," she said, eyeing his badge and wondering if she was getting older or the detectives were getting younger.  
"Ex cop," he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, and watching, obviously trying to gauge her reaction.  
"Okay," she said indifferently, and looked towards the house, then back to the detective. "Do you want to lead the way then?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. Reddening under her scrutiny, he bobbed his head and turned, walking quickly into the house.  
They came into what was obviously a bedroom, and she spotted her charge immediately. A tall, well built, stocky man was sprawled out on his bed, head bent back. She walked closer and saw the expression of bitterness etched into his face. In his hand he clutched a very old, very battered book, one which looked to be a journal of some sorts.  
"Richard Donovan," the detective said, hovering over her shoulder. She sent him a look and bent over the body.  
"TOD around 9pm last night," she said. "No wounds or any external injuries."  
She felt the back of his head.  
"No head trauma."  
The young detective nodded and scribbled the information down in his notebook.  
After completing her on-scene examination, she took the book carefully from the dead man's protesting fingers and bagged it. Nigel could have some fun with it later, she thought. Beckoning the people who would transport the body to the morgue, she packed up her things, nodded to the detective and climbed back into her car, grimacing at the now cold, congealing coffee in the holder and promising herself another nice, scalding cup when she arrived at the morgue.

-------------------------

"Died from a heart attack," Jordan concluded, having finished the internal examination. Nigel, who was assisting her, nodded, distracted. He was sitting on a chair on the other side of the room, back to her.  
"Tox clean," he said, not even looking at her. She frowned and walked around the other side of the gurney and looked over his shoulder.  
"What are you…"  
Her question didn't even finish formulating. She saw that he was reading the journal that the man had held so close to him when he had died, and felt a twinge of guilt that she hadn't thought to read it sooner.  
"What does it say?"  
"It's not his," Nigel said, finally breaking and looking up. "Some woman called Lola, from what I can gather."  
She plucked it out of his hands. At his mock hurt expression, she grinned. "My case," she said, shrugging. He scowled at her.  
"I'm reading it next," he said, and left the room.  
Jordan put the book to one side and closed Ricky up, bagging his body again, for transportation back into the crypt. Lily was having trouble finding the family of the man but that didn't matter for now. Someone would eventually come forward.  
She again picked up the journal and took it to her office. She opened it, only intending to read the first page or two, but became so engrossed in it, the next time she looked up, an hour had passed.  
Garret looked in on her.  
"What are you doing?" he asked, exasperated.  
"Working on a case," she muttered.  
"It looks like you're reading a book," he said, flatly.  
She looked up from the journal.  
"Diary that came in with Ex-Detective Richard Donovan."  
Garret sighed, and nodded, leaving the room. She bent her head again and resumed her place.  
Two hours later (although it only felt like ten minutes to her!) Nigel came in.  
She looked up at him and smiled. "This is like a novel," she said, waving the book.  
"I read something in the middle of it," he said, nodding. "What is it about?"  
She turned the old, yellowing pages back a few and cleared her throat.  
"January 6th, 1927," she read. "Bert was killed last night. The police say it was poison. They also say that I did it, so I don't think they're really to be trusted. One of them was staring at me strangely, though. Donovan, I think his name was. But what does it matter? If they're set on the fact that it was me, then it was me, for all that the technicalities matter. Stanley is pretty cut up about it, as is to be expected. He's not talking to me, which hurts far more than anything the police can throw my way. We have been friends for so long I have given up counting, he has been there for me where no one else has, and I for him. I can't bear to have him believe that I murdered his father. The owner of the prestigious Midnight Monkey murdered, and I the prime suspect. I should have seen it coming. It's not even like Bert had no enemies. There were the owners of the other bars around, to name a few. Even Willard has a reason to kill him, though I must say I don't think him capable of it. They are calling me back in for another interview now, so I must sign out."  
She looked at Nigel, who was frowning. "Donovan being the bloke in autopsy one?"  
She nodded. "I'll ask Dad tonight if he knew him," she said, and waved the criminologist out as she sank back into the epic.  
Another hour and she was done. Nigel chose just that moment to come back in, when the tears were threatening to fall down her face.  
"What is it, love?" he asked, concerned.  
"They hanged her," she said, voice wavering.  
"You softy," he teased gently, and took the book from her, reading the last page.  
"Donovan wrote that?" he queried.  
She nodded. "His tribute. He was enamoured of her, to say the least." Nigel grinned. "But her last entry while on death row was what did it for me."  
Nigel flipped back, read, and fought back the lump that was forming in his own throat.  
"God that's awful!" he said after he had finished, not knowing what else to say. To Jordan, it was perfectly clear to her that Lola was not a murderer. How could someone so like her, for she had discovered Lola was, be capable of something like that?"  
Lily poked her head around the door, unaware of the emotions flying around both Jordan and Nigel.  
"No family," she said.  
"None?" Nigel asked, surprised.  
"He was 95 years old," she said, shrugging. "An orphan, apparently. No siblings, never married, never had kids. No friends. Absolutely nothing."  
Jordan and Nigel exchanged a glance.  
"He didn't betray her with anyone," Jordan said. Their eyes locked, neither knowing quite what to say. Lily frowned, shook her head and walked out.  
"I think I'll go ask Max now," she said, feeling strange and standing up. Nigel nodded and watched as she walked out of the room and down the corridor to the elevator.

----------------------

"The Midnight Monkey, did you say?" Max asked, staring at Jordan and standing up from the lounge.  
She nodded, frowning. His eyes were alight.  
"Jordan," he said slowly.  
"What?" she asked, irritated.  
"That is The Pogue!"  
"What?" she asked stupidly.  
"The Midnight Monkey was the name of my bar in the 20's!"  
She shook her head. "You're having me on."  
"I'm dead serious!" he said.  
A smiled couldn't help but spreading over her face.  
"I think we're a little overdue, don't you?"  
Confusion was evident on her father's face.  
"I bags Lola," she said, and it dawned on him.  
"I want to be Donovan!" he said, but she wrinkled her nose. "I was picturing you as Bert, actually."  
"Bert?" he asked.  
"The owner of the bar." She didn't elaborate.  
"The one who was murdered?"  
She grinned and nodded. "Nigel can have fun teasing you. You always give him a bad role."  
He smiled. "I like being dead, anyway. Tonight?"  
"If I can round them all up, then yeah," she said, reaching up and planting a kiss on his cheek before turning.  
"I'll see you at the Midnight Monkey!" he said. She grinned to herself and waved, before walking out of the door, phone already in hand.

--------------------------

"I thought we only did cold cases?" Garret said when she had put it to him. She wrinkled her nose and tossed him the diary.  
"Yeah, preferably murders, as well," she said. "It's not Ricky Donovan. Bert Watson."  
"Sounds like a talk show host," Garret said, irritably, and flicked through the crackly, yellowing pages of the journal.  
He stopped at one of the pages and his eyebrow rose.  
"Sounds more like a romance novel than a murder," he said, but she could tell he was interested. He looked at her. "Do you have the case file?"  
She grinned. "Not yet. Are you free tonight?"  
He nodded, trying to look disinterested when really his interest had been piqued. She plucked the journal out of his hands.  
"Wait 'till tonight, when all will be revealed," she said, in a sardonically mysterious voice, and turned, leaving the room.

-----------------------

"Thanks, Woody," he said, as the detective opened the door to The Pogue and handed her two black files, wordlessly.  
"Two?" she asked.  
"The second one is a reporter who was involved in the case and murdered." She shrugged. "They thought it was connected back then but couldn't ever prove who did it."  
"Let me guess, Lola got the rap for it as well."  
"L. Grant?" he surmised, thinking back to the quick skimming over of the report that he had done.  
Jordan nodded.  
"Am I the first one here?" he asked, looking around the deserted bar.  
She nodded. "Dad's out the back seeing what he can dredge up about the Midnight Monkey. He reckons there were some boxes of newspapers and things." She shrugged.  
Max came back out, carrying a box, grinning and looking rather pleased with himself. "I lied about the boxes, Jordan," he said, and put the box on the nearest table. "But I have prepared character profiles of everyone, instead, with what you told me about them all earlier this evening and their psychiatric and otherwise profiles and histories from the time."  
She shook her head. "You love doing that," she muttered.  
The door opened and Garret walked in, followed by Nigel and then Bug. The formalities of greetings and whatnot aside, they settled down with drinks and waited for Lily.  
When two figures walked in, one expected and one most certainly not, the six looked up and watched, some interested, some amused and some irritated, as Lily walked in, smiling radiantly and a little stiffly followed by Detective Seely.  
"Hi, Lily, Seely," Garret said. "What brings you here?" His last question was directed at the detective, who bristled.  
Lily looked at the ME. "We had already made plans," she said, going slightly red, but I wanted to come so I figured we'd combine the two…" she trailed off at the Garret's disinterested face, so she addressed Jordan.  
"Hope that's okay?" she asked.  
Jordan nodded, smiling at Seely. "Of course, it's fine."  
"Okay lets get started," Max said, slapping his hands together. "I characterized you all again, I think we can agree I did well last time?"  
An audible mutter from Nigel caused a hearty laugh to ensue from the six others who had witnessed his role last time around later.  
"These people lived in the 1920's, so it is going to be considerably harder than last time to get into their heads. Of course, as well as semi-detailed forensic and police reports which Detective Hoyt had been kind enough to procure for us, we have Lola Grant's journal from the time, which has been added onto by Detective Donovan. I think it will be enough to get us started, anyway." He looked around, and nodded perfunctorily, before picking up one of the manilla folders in the box on the table.  
"Jordan, you are, for all intents and purposes tonight, Miss Lola Grant."  
She grinned, knowing and hoping her father would cast this role to her, and took it without a word, opening it.  
"Garret," Max said, stepping away from his daughter to the man standing next to her. "Dr. Fred Mitchell, ME on the case." He nodded and took his file.  
"Nigel," he said, and Nigel watched him apprehensively, knowing that, even though Lola was the one accused, there was probably some other perverted character to assign to him.  
"Stanley Watson, the murdered man's son."  
Nigel grinned and took his file, opening it eagerly and beginning to absorb the information.  
"Woody. Detective Ricky Donovan."  
Jordan shot him a glance, which he returned as he held out his hand for the file.  
"Bug," Max said. "Mr. Willard Jones, a suspect."  
Bug nodded.  
"Lily, you are, tonight, Violet Meridian, Lola's co-star and best friend."  
Lily grinned at Jordan as she took her file.  
"I haven't got one for you, detective," Max said. "A file that is. You have a character, though. The reporter who was murdered near the end of the case. Jacob Carmichael. Have a read through the murder report, there are some clippings he wrote, which will probably help you get into his head."  
Max stepped back, watching everyone read.  
"Happy?" he asked, knowing the answer. They nodded simultaneously, all except Seely who looked very skeptical.  
"How exactly does this work?"  
Max tapped his nose comically. "All in the fullness of time," he said. "You don't come in for a while anyway, so just watch and learn."  
Max looked to his daughter, watching her run a hand over the diary he had slipped into her file.  
"Want to take us through it?" he said. "I can't this time because I'm as much in the dark as you. I may look old but I was not there in 1927."  
This earnt him a few laughs, and he went on. "So seeing as you have already read the diary…" he trailed off. She hesitated, and looked up at him.  
"Yep sure," she said. She opened the diary and, smoothing her hand over the first page, began to read.


	2. Take Me Back To 1927

**A/N: I forgot to mention, that last chapter was mine. In tradition, so is this one. :P Bu don't worry, hopefully the next one will be Carlies. Anyway...**

**Tell us what you think!**

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**Chapter 2: Take Me Back to 1927**

They were in the dressing room they shared, sitting in chairs, unable to keep the grins off their faces. The gig had gone well, very well in fact.

"We'll have to step it up next week," Violet commented lightly to Lola, who merely nodded. She was still out of breath.

Violet continued. "Maybe we could both sing the whole song."

Lola looked at her, and raised an eyebrow. "We have already been through this," she said, in a tired voice. "We need a backup, and seeing as there are only two of us…"

"Why can't you be the backup for once?" Violet asked.

Lola studied her friend. "It's my gig. You're lucky I even let you in. It's less money for me as it is. And I think it's safe to say I need it more than you." Lola was not being arrogant, not intentionally in any case. It was just the way she was.

Violet bristled and only managed to contain the anger that coursed over her face.

She slumped back in her seat.

"I know," she said. "But maybe…"

"No," Lola said flatly, and stood up, leaning towards the mirror. She wiped her face clean of the makeup that she and Violet had plied on each other before they went out on stage.

The door opened and Stanley, one of their two musicians walked in, grinning. Lola smiled back and he stepped towards her and gave her a quick hug.

"Great work out there," he said. She grinned again.

"You weren't bad yourself."

Stanley sighed and looked away from her momentarily. Her heart sank, she knew what he was going to say even before he opened his mouth.

"Nothing has changed. He still won't renew your contract."

Lola nodded. "I figured," she said in a steady, calm voice.

There was a knock on the door. Stanley raised an eyebrow at Lola, who shrugged, and went over to open it.

"Yes?" he asked the unknown man who stood there, rather expectantly.

"Miss Lola Grant there?" he asked brusquely. Stanley frowned, instantly disliking the man for some reason which remained unfathomable to him.

"Who's asking?" he said.

"Willard Jones," the man said.

"I'm here," Lola's voice met Stanley's ears. He sighed and stepped aside, allowing the man in.

He entered immediately.

"Miss Lola Grant?" he asked the dark haired woman. She nodded, not bothering to stand up. He held out his hand and she took it. They shook.

"I heard your contract at the Midnight Monkey is just about up," he said. Lola's eyes flew to Stanley's who shrugged. The information was not publicly known.

"I am an agent, and I come to offer you two lovely ladies a job, of sorts."

"Of sorts?" Violet asked.

"More of a…" he paused, searching for the right word. "Travelling gig. Bar to bar, not even necessarily in Boston."

"That would be…" Violet began, not able to believe their luck.

"No," Lola said flatly.

"What?" Violet asked, incredulous.

"We have a job."

"Not for long," Violet hissed. The two women locked eyes, Violet glaring at Lola who was regarding her friend with a cold, almost calculating gaze.

"You take it if you want," Lola said after almost half a minute had passed.

Violet scowled at her, knowing full well she wasn't much without her friend, and sat back down in her seat, staring intently at her balled fist.

"Sorry, Mr. Jones," Lola said, sounding anything but. Jones grinned and sidled up the Lola, handing her a card.

"If you change your mind…"

"Yeah sure, you'll be the first to know," Lola said in a bored voice. Jones glanced at the pouting Violet, then turned on his heel and left the room.

Stanley watched Lola. "He's not going to change his mind, you know," he said, referring to his father, the man who was about to terminate Lola and Violet's employment.

"I realise that," Lola said cryptically, knowing Stanley's words to be true. Bert had harboured an intense dislike of Lola for many years now. She and Stanley had been friends when they were children, living on the same block and in the same year at both primary and high school. She had no idea why Bert had never taken to her, but had never particularly cared. Now she found herself wishing she had made more of an effort, maybe he would reconsider their contract. As it was, he had insisted that he had another act lined up, one that would be more popular with the crowds, but had never elaborated on it, leading Lola to believe that in all actuality he had no concrete reason to get rid of them. She wished now that she'd insisted on a contract spanning longer than a year.

Lola glanced at Violet, somewhat disturbed by the look of sheer ambition that had flitted across the girl's face when Jones had made his proposition. She was also an old friend, but they girls had not shared the easy, light friendship that she and Stanley enjoyed. They were definitely from two different sides of the tracks, Violet's father a rich businessman, and Lola's father an ex-medical examiner who was fired on account of his alcoholism. Even while he was still working, her father spent every penny he made on the alcohol, and every spare minute he had drinking it.

Lola's mother had left when she was eight, had run to escape the abusive man Lola's father became when he was under the influence. When she had left, Lola had become the main focus of her father's drunken rage, and had many a bruise in the mornings that she didn't even bother to try and hide. She took a moment to wonder about her father's fate, and realised with a jolt that she hoped he was dead. Wished it, actually. She shook her head free of the disturbing thought and tried to tell herself that she it was mere indifference – that she didn't care if her father was alive or dead.

She resented her mother, but not so much for leaving as for the insult of Lola not being able to do so herself. It burned her that she herself was not old enough to take matters into her own hand. Desperate to grow up, she was obviously a late bloomer as far as emotional maturity went, as most people who want to grow up before their time are. The day after she turned 16 she packed her bags (figuratively, of course, because she couldn't bear to keep anything her father had given her bar a single outfit of clothing) and searched for a job.

She cut her trail of thought off abruptly, not wanting to go back to where she went for nine years, even if only in spirit. She brought her focus back to the small dressing room where Stanley watched her with interest on his face.

"Not now," she said, stemming his unspoken query about her words to the agent, Jones. He nodded and stood.

"I better 'scrub up'," he said grimly, referring to the uniform he wore when working for his father.

"Working tonight?" Violet asked. He shrugged.

"May as well," he said, waved amicably and left the room.

As soon s he did, Violet rounded on Lola.

"What are you playing at?" she said venomously.

Lola regarded her with a cool stare.

"I have a feeling that we wont be needing another job."

"You think you can change Bert's mind? He hates you."

Lola blinked slowly, purposefully. "I didn't say that."

"Stop being so damned cryptic!" Violet was standing now. She was scared, scared for herself and even Lola, scared that they'd have to live on the street. Lola had shared her own stories of that particular life style and it wasn't pleasant. Not in the slightest.

"Why don't you just calm down and let me worry about it."

"We stood back and 'let you worry about it' when you left home," Violet said quietly.

Lola stood, stung.

"Whatever," she said nonchalantly and turned, leaving Violet staring hopelessly after her.

---------------

Jordan stopped reading.

"What is it?" Lily asked. The two women shared a glance, Jordan knowing where the story was headed and Lily guessing.

"End of the entry," Jordan said. "Drink break?"

Garret and Max exchanged a glance. "We've only been going 10 minutes," Max said.

Jordan shrugged. "Okay."

Garret frowned. "So you think Lola is innocent?" he asked, directing it at Jordan.

"I do," she said.

"Why?"

"It doesn't add up," was her answer.

"You heard her," Garret said. "She didn't want another job, she had something up her sleeve."

"And she obviously had no qualms in wishing people dead," Lily interjected.

Jordan looked at Lily. "If my father had done what he did to her I'd wish him dead too." She paused, letting it sink in. "No offence, Dad," she said, the mood lightening when everyone, except Seely who was obviously in way over his head, laughed.

"Shouldn't we wait for the murder before we start accusing people?" Woody said jokingly, and Jordan smiled.

"It's coming," she said, picking up the book and turning to the next entry.

----------------

"Why can't you just renew their damned contract? I know you haven't got anything lined up for after they go."

"I don't want them here," he said. "Their act is old , done. People want something new and fresh."

"And you just don't want them here," Stanley said stonily. Bert regarded his son.

"You're still interested in her, aren't you?"

"No, Dad," he said, but his flushed cheeks said otherwise. "I just think you're being irrational.

"Well luckily for us this is my bar, not yours," Bert said and turned away from his son, dismissing him.

Stanley made a noise in his throat, letting his father know he was displeased, and left the room, walking out into the dining part of the bar. He made a beeline for the table where Lola and Violet sat, sharing a meal.

"How are you?" he asked, taking a seat next to Lola.

"Not bad, yourself?" Violet said, mimicking his stiff tone of voice.

Stanley hailed the waiter and ordered something. Lola watched the man walk off.

"I thought you were the only one your father hired?"

"For the bar," Stanley corrected. "We do have a waiter."

"I can see that," Lola said, making them laugh.

---------------

The eight were brought out of their introspection into the lives of their 1927 counterparts by Woody clearing his throat impatiently.

"Where is this leading?" he said. "Surely we're not going to go through her whole life including every meal she eats."

"The murder is on the next page," Nigel said, glancing at Jordan. Only the two of them had read the journal.

Woody looked at him, nodding. "Right."

"Well, while we're in the 21st Century, lets put in a punt," Max said. "If not Lola, then who?"

Jordan thought. "Jones," she said, looking at Bug, who comically pointed to himself. They laughed, and looked at Jordan again.

"He wanted Violet and Lola," Jordan said, shrugging. "Makes sense to me."

"Again, murder before suspects," Garret said, cutting off the speculation. "Lets get on with it."

"I'll skip to the murder then, shall I?" Jordan asked.

---------------

Stanley stood up.

"Dad's supposed to be serving at the bar," he said, frowning and peering through the haze of cigarette smoke to the bar where people were calling out, demanding to be served. Stanley shrugged and made his leave, hurrying over to the bar and apologising profusely before swiftly serving the irritated and obviously impatient customers.

When the line that had accumulated died down, Stanley walked out the back, calling out for his father.

"Get out here and serve, I'm in the middle of dinner," he called. When there was no response, he went through the back door that opened out into the alley, the one they used when putting rubbish in the dumpster. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark, but when they did, he wished they hadn't.

Back inside the bar, Lola and Violet had finished their meal. Deciding they had had enough of leering men (did no women frequent this bar? Violet thought irritably,) and cigarette smoke, they picked their way through the crowd to the hall that led to their room, but were stopped in their tracks when they heard an angry cry coming from behind the bar. They exchanged a glance and rushed towards the sound. The saw that the back door was open, and went through.

Lola's eyes flew to the burly figure lying, limbs at funny angles, and then to the man kneeling at his side, eyes wide with shock.

"He's dead," Stanley said, looking past Lola. "He's dead."


	3. The Gang's All Here

**A/N: Here we go! Chapter 3! Written by Carlie (aka Lilyjnr!)**

**Enjoy and review! Please. LOL. Witha cherry on top, even! We're generous!**

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**Chapter 3: The Gang's All Here**

Present Day

"Wow." Lily said with a sigh.  
They all looked at Max. Nigel and Jordan being the only ones who knew the story.  
Jordan perked up again, breaking the silence that had fallen on the bar. "Wow that was quick. So how to do enjoy being dead now Dad?" She teased.  
"Well he spoke to me, I liked his persona."  
Jordan nodded at her father. "Uh huh."  
Nigel moved in to change the subject. "Poor Stanley."  
"You're just happy you're not the suspect!….yet." Bug hit back teasing Nigel.  
Garret, always the voice of responsibility tried to bring the group back on track. "Perhaps we should get back to the case."  
Jordan nodded agreeingly.  
He continued. "So Bert Watson is dead. Who killed him and how?" The gang looked stumped.  
Max grinned and pulling out the case report. "Detective this is your big entrance."  
Woody took the folder and grinned like a 12 year old.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
-Back in 1927

Stanley and Lola sat at a booth in the, now empty club. She is wearing a low cut black dress, not what would typically be called daywear for a lady. Violet was sitting at a stool by the bar.  
A man in a smart suit, coat and hat walked through the door from the alleyway. Followed by some other policemen. He introduces himself, though not looking either of them directly in the eyes. "Detective Ricky Donovan. Boston Police Department." After a pause, Donovan continued. "Are you the one who found him?" The detective asked to Stanley, as he opened his notepad. Lola squeezed Stanley's hand.  
"Yes." Stanley answered the detective with a sigh.  
"You are his son correct?"  
"I am." Replied Stanley. Lola and Violet glanced at each other, Violet not looking Lola directly in the eye. Lola noted this, but shrugged it off as she turned her attention back to Stanley and the Detective.  
The detective then turned to Lola and Violet. "And who are you two?" He asked rather directly.  
They did not get the chance to answer, as at that moment another man walked into the room. Lola's eyes widened when she saw him. He greeted Donovan with a scowl. "Detective."  
"Dr Mitchell." The Detective answered back, also with a scowl.  
Mitchell spotted Lola. "Lola." He greeted her, scowling again.  
"Hey there Fred." She said coldly.  
Stanley looked up. He knew Dr Mitchell. Of his history with Lola and her father. His heart sank. This was not a good sign.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were suddenly pulled back into the present.

"Wait who's Fred Mitchell?"  
5 of the other eight of them groaned. (Those that did not were Max, Lily and of course Seely himself.)  
Max was kind enough to explain things to the blonde detective. "Mitchell was the coroner on the case."  
Bug looked confused. "What's he got to do with Lola?"  
Jordan picks up the diary, turning to an earlier page. "Lola's father was a medical examiner…he worked with Mitchell. Apparently Mitchell held a grudge for Lola's father getting a promotion over him...he was not a fan…"  
Max put up a hand to stop her from going on. "Let's not give away too much just yet, and uh, get back to the story, shall we."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Back Alleyway, behind the Midnight Monkey. –Crime scene.

Detective Ricky Donovan was perusing the area. Making note of little things that could be used as evidence, or at least point them in the right direction. "Photograph that!" The detective instructed an officer, pointing to what looked to be a set of footprints in the dirt next to the trash cans near the doorway. The officer rushed over and took care of it. Ricky moved on. He was standing next to the body, about to question the coroner Dr Mitchell, on his primary opinions and theories about Bert Watson's death, when a young gung-ho reporter, dressed in a long coat and a fedora, called out to the detective.  
"Detective Donovan!" He pushed his way past a crime scene barrier. "Uh Detective!"  
Ricky sighed deeply. He knew this man, this 'kid'. He was a reporter for the Boston Herald. _"A good kid_" he thought to himself. "_Good, but a little overzealous at times."_ The detective put his hands in the pockets of his trench coat, and greeted the reporter. "Jake."  
"So what you got Ricky?" Jake asked with a little too much enthusiasm.  
Donovan coughed pointedly.  
"Uh. Detective Donovan…" The reporter quickly corrected himself. "So what's the go?" Jake looked past Donovan to crime scene, specifically at the body lying on the ground.  
"Probable Homicide." The detective shrugged his shoulders, and watched with almost a scowl as Jake wrote this down.  
Jake nodded in the direction of the body. "He gotta name?"  
Ricky sighed. "Bert Watson. Bar owner. 50."  
Once again Jake wrote this down. He then gestured to the body again and then he and Donovan both walked over to Dr Mitchell.  
The Detective spoke first. "So what do you think Fred?"  
"Well there's no bullet wound, he wasn't shot, or strangled by the looks of things." Dr Mitchell pointed to Bert's neck, where there were no marks.  
"So what do you imagine killed him then?" The reporter blurted out, before Donovan had a chance to even open his mouth.  
Dr Mitchell glanced at the detective. Donovan nodded for him to continue. "Doctor."  
"My guess Gentlemen is that he was poisoned."  
"Poisoned!" The reporters yell made Ricky jump.  
"Well of course I'd need to do a proper autopsy at the morgue…but that is what I presume happened." Dr Mitchell adjusted his glasses.  
"Any clues that may lead us to the murderer yet Dr Mitchell?" The detective asked with a hint of impatience in his voice.  
"Nothing major yet. Though we did find a finger print, and a few dark hairs on the victim's collar, which we will analyse." Dr Mitchell squinted his eyes and almost smiled at this.  
"Let me know if you find something more Doc." And Donovan left. The reporter disappearing as well.

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Present Day

Jordan and Lily sit on the stage. Woody and Seely are sitting on the edge, though metres apart. Garret and Max were standing. And Bug and Nigel were sitting on the floor next to the stage, reading over their profiles - Both bored with the latest scene.  
"Gee they don't have much to go on! I'm definitely glad to be a cop in this day and age!" Woody exclaimed with a sigh. He glanced at Seely, who seemed to share the same opinion.  
"So what's next?" Lily asked with curiosity.  
Jordan flipped through the book, and looked at Woody. "Stanley's interrogation."  
Nigel suddenly popped his head up and grinned, pleased to have something to do again. His expression caused Lily and Jordan to crack up laughing.  
"Take us away Woodrow." Max directed. And so he did.

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1927 – Interrogation room.

Stanley was sitting at the table. Donovan was circling.  
"The Coroner said your father was most likely murdered." Said the detective rather casually.  
"I know." Stanley replied, not moving his stare from the top of the table.  
"So do you know someone who might have wanted to kill your father?" The Detective continued on, still circling.  
"No!" Stanley practically yelled, looking the detective in the eyes.  
"Did your father have any enemies?"  
"Not that I know of…but he was in competition with a lot of other bars and clubs…But most people loved the old guy."  
The detective stoped circling. "What about the employees of the Midnight Monkey?"  
"What employees?" Stanley said with a laugh. "There's just me, the waiter Jim, a couple of kitchen staff, the other 3 band members, and then Lola and Violet!"  
"Grant and Meridian?" The detective asked, glancing at his note pad again.  
"Yes." Stanley sighed.  
"The show girls."  
"They're singers, dancers. None of that funny stuff." Stanley growled defensively.  
The detective nodded and continued on. "Do you think it's possible that either one of them could have murdered your father?'  
"No. Of course not!" Stanley was ready to stand up and walk out at this moment.  
"But they were both in the club at the time of the murder. Correct?" Donovan was now standing at Stanley's right. He leant on the table.  
"Yes. They were on a dinner break." Stanley sighed once more.  
"Can you think of any reason for either of them to want to murder your father?" Donovan stood up straight again.  
"No." Stanley replied flatly.  
"Did you kill your father?" Donovan did not blink as he starred Stanley straight in the eyes.  
"NO!" Stanley barked.  
Donovan eased up, and nodded. "Okay."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Not much later, outside another interrogation room, Lola and Violet sat waiting to be interviewed. Ink on their fingers from having their fingerprints taken. Lola was sitting still, her eyes were focused on a painting on the wall opposite. Violet on the other hand kept fidgeting, not being able to sit comfortably in her chair.  
"Are you alright?" Lola asked her friend.  
"Nothing. I'm fine." Violet said, forcing a smile.  
At that moment a detective came out, asking for Lola to come inside. Lola glanced at Violet, and stood up and followed the detective. Once inside the room she sat in the seat the detective directed her to. Detective Donovan was also in the room.  
The other detective spoke first. "I'm Detective O'Daley. I believe you've met Detective Donovan."  
"Yes. I have." Lola responded, glancing in Donovan's direction.  
"So you were employed by Bert Watson correct?" O'Daley asked.  
"Correct."  
Donovan finally spoke. "And what is it you do?" He asked.  
"I'm a singer, a dancer. Violet and I perform an act together." She said the last part with smidge of bitterness.  
"Uh huh. And how long have you worked for Mr Watson?" Donovan continued.  
Lola had to think this over for a minute, it seemed like ages. "Uh about 3 years now. I think."  
O'Daley took the next question. –Though the two detectives were not really working together on this. O'Daley was young, new to homicide, and eager to please the big wigs. Donovan on the other hand had been in homicide for years now, and on the force way longer than that. Ricky Donovan was also much less open minded and forgiving than his fellow detective. The effects of a tough life.  
"And how did you get the job?"  
"I've known Stanley since we were small children. We're good friends." Lola answered, still pretty much keeping it all together.  
O'Daley looked at his notepad. "Stanley…Watson? The son?"  
"Yes!" Lola started getting somewhat agitated by the detective's need for clarification.  
Donovan coughed. "Okay. O'Daley, moving on." He turned back to Lola. "So Miss Grant, what were you doing at the time of Mr Watson's murder?"  
"I was eating dinner. With Violet and Stanley." She answered plainly.  
Donovan looked at some papers. "Actually the coroner puts the time of death at about half an hour to an hour before he was found."  
O'Daley looked her in the eye.  
Lola sighed. She suddenly realised that she had no real alibi before dinner, for she was alone at the time. "I was in the dressing rooms, fixing one of my costumes that needed some repair before the second show."  
"Righto. And was anyone else around at the time?" Donovan went on.  
"You mean was did anyone see me doing that? No, I don't believe so." She sighed again, losing her relaxed expression to a more pursed and hardened one.  
"And where were the other employees at this time?" O'Daley asked promptly.  
"Well Stanley was at the bar, working….Jim was serving as usual. And Violet was probably off having a drink or something."  
Donovan looked at Lola. "So you have no idea where Violet was at the time?"  
Lola gritted her teeth. "No I do not." She folded her hands in her lap.  
"And how well do you know Miss Meridian?" Donovan enquired.  
"I've known her almost as long as Stanley."  
O'Daley spoke again. "What about the other staff?"  
Lola shrugged. "Well I don't really have much to do with them. Jim the waiter is pretty new, I only met him yesterday."  
The two detectives stood up and ceased the questions. Ricky put his hands in his pockets.  
"Can I leave now?" Lola asked, she'd had quite enough of all this. She wanted to check up on Stanley and see how he was doing.  
Donovan nodded. As she was getting up he directed another question her way. "Just one last question Miss Grant."  
She turned her head looking at him over her right shoulder. "Yes."  
Donovan walked over to her. "Did you kill your boss?" He asked firmly.  
Lola managed, what resembled a small smile. "No. I did not." And she turned and walked out.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The Morgue –

"Dr Mitchell." Detective Donovan walked into the morgue. "I hear you've found something!"  
"Yes I have indeed detective!" The coroner had almost an evil smile on his face as he thought of what he had found.  
He was just about to continue when he was silenced by a rather loud shout coming from the corridor.  
"Wait!"  
The detective and the coroner looked around. In ran Jake.  
"Why Jacob Carmichael. How nice to see you." The detective said with a sarcastic undertone. "What are you doing here Jake?" The detective said much more pointedly.  
"Hey there Detective. Doc!" The reporter caught his breath.  
"Jake!" Ricky got impatient.  
"Oh. Uh. I'm here for the scoop!" The reporter answered eagerly.  
Dr Mitchell carried on, pretty much ignoring the reporter's interruption. "Those footprints we found at the crime scene, near the trash cans, belong to a female. A size 6 most likely." The coroner then continues to spiel on about the footprints and how they worked it all out.  
Jake writes all this down, as the detective begins to zone it out and starts daydreaming.  
The coroner stops and Ricky takes this moment to jump in and ask another question, before Dr Mitchell gets going again. "Okay, anything on that finger print?"  
"Not a lot Detective." Dr Mitchell sighs. "It's probably too unclear to tell for sure, but it does resemble the ladies of the club."  
"You mean the singers?" Jake asks, still writing this all down.  
"Yes." The coroner replies straight up.  
The detective looks at his watch, times a wasting. "Okay Doc, what about cause of death. Were your preliminary suspicions correct?" Ricky asks.  
"Absolutely Detective!" Dr Mitchell took off his glasses and wiped them clean. "As I suspected, Bert Watson was poisoned. Probably not by a general household kind either, it was intended for this precise purpose I'd say!"  
"Interesting."  
The detective was almost ready to bop the reporter on the head at this point.  
"What about those hairs? Any clue as to who they belong to?" The detective was getting frustrated with this case. It was too wide. And he felt something was not quite right.  
"The dark hairs, well the only ones with dark hair of your suspects is Lola Grant, correct!" Dr Mitchell stated.  
Donovan sighed. He knew that it would point to her. "Thanks Doc."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The Present Day –

They are all sitting around a table, with papers and photos with evidence and facts about the case spread all over.  
"Okay so they were all interviewed…" Woody began.  
The conversation continued around the table. "And Mitchell was investigating the murder." Jordan continued.  
"As was Detective Donovan…." Lily added.  
Nigel sighed. "So why'd they focus solely on Lola?"  
Bug picked up a piece of paper and read from it. "Dr Mitchell's evidence seemed to point to Lola. And they didn't seem interested in "  
Seely looked from side to side, but had nothing to add.  
Max continued. "Both Lola and Violet's alibi's were sketchy and unverifiable."  
"So why did all the heat go to Lola?" Garret asked the room.  
"What was so peachy about Violet?" Bug looked a little confused.  
Lily smirked at Bug's use of the word 'peachy'.  
"I don't get it!" He continued on.  
Lily looked over her profile. "Apparently Violet was from the good side of the tracks. She had high class education, especially for a woman. Her parents were both known in the community…"  
Jordan picked up the diary and continued. "According to Lola, Violet was the victim of high society life. Her parents paid her very little attention, and wanted her to be a proper little lady. She rebelled. She wanted to be a singer." Jordan put the diary down. "I dunno. If you ask me that gives her somewhat of a motive! Maybe she killed Bert because of her parental issues." She shrugged.  
"Then why didn't they think of this back then?" Bug asked.  
"Perhaps for that exact reason." Max suggested. "Because of her higher standing in society."  
Seely looked over the pages in front of him. "I thought her parents disowned her!"  
"Yeah but compared to Lola…Violet was as good as gold!" Jordan argued.  
"I think we're getting a little ahead of ourselves here." Garret interrupted. "Shouldn't we see where this all goes!"  
"You mean apart from Lola's death!" Nigel quipped.  
Bug hid a laugh, as Garret glared at Nigel.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
1927 – The Midnight Monkey main bar.

The Midnight Monkey was closed during the day, due to Bert's murder. But Stanley, who had now inherited the bar, wanted to keep it open for the dinner and evening hours.  
It was mid-late afternoon and Lola was on stage rehearsing her act, sans Violet, who had mysteriously disappeared for the day. She was just nearing the end of a song, when Detective Ricky Donovan walked in. He stood there, watching her, enthralled by her voice.  
_"She has a beautiful voice"_ Ricky thought to himself.  
She noticed the look in his eye, something honest, yet broken. A feeling she felt herself. Donovan watched her as she finished her song.  
Lola stepped down off the stage. "Hello again Detective."  
"Miss Grant." He said, with a small little nod of his head.  
She passed him and walked over to the bar, where she picked up a glass, gin was her drink of choice. She sat on one of the bar stools, and turned her head back to face the detective. "What brings you here Detective? Come to question me, I suppose." She took another sip from her glass.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
They were suddenly brought back into the present.

"I think I've seen this in a movie!..."  
Jordan laughs. "Oh Woody." She whispers under her breath, and sighs again.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
And back to last scene – continuing on where it left off in 1927.

"What brings you here Detective? Come to question me, I suppose." She took another sip from her glass.  
Ricky held up a newspaper. The headline read "_Local Lounge Singer Suspected For Boss' Murder. By Jacob Carmichael"_  
"You know Mitchell, the coroner thinks you had something to do with it, with Bert Watson's murder." The detective began, as he walked towards the bar.  
Lola sighed. "Old Fred's going to hold it against us forever." She said under her breath. "Of course he would, a girl like me…my background. Sure why not." She took a deep breath, and directed her attention to the detective. "And what do you think?"  
"I am not quite as sure." The detective admitted, looking Lola in straight in the eye…which he now wished he hadn't, for he saw something familiar in her eyes. There was something about this gal that just went through him. He felt her stare go right through the wall he had put up, and right through his bitterness and hostility.  
She pointed to the paper Ricky had put on the bar. "Your buddies down at the precinct don't seem to share the same position as you." Lola took a cigarette out of a holder and put it to her lips. The detective leaned forward and lit it for her. "Thank you."  
"So care to tell me why Dr Mitchell has such a problem with you?" The Detective sincerely inquired.  
"It's a long and uninteresting story Detective." She answered dully. "You don't want to hear all the sordid details of my past." She looked him in the eye. "Trust me."  
He smiled at her, not in a happy way, but more in an understanding way. "So is there anyone you can think of that may have wanted to kill your boss?" The detective asked with kindness.  
"Look I honestly don't know. Apart from the occasional drunk, Bert had no quibbles with people." Lola took another drag from her cigarette.  
"Well watch your back doll, I don't know how far Mitchell and the other officers will go with his accusations. Especially if Mitchell has it out for you as much as you say." He tips his hat, nods and walks out.

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Present Day

"Wait wait wait! What happened with the investigation. How'd we suddenly get to a Lola and Ricky thing!" Woody suddenly burst out.  
Everyone looked at the detective.  
Jordan and Nigel shared a look. It was starting to frustrate them, the fact that they were the only ones who knew this story. "Because it's a huge part of the case!" She explained.  
"How!" Woody questioned again.  
Jordan sighed. "Just wait my dear Woodrow." She laughed. "Just you wait."


	4. Gone But Not Forgotten

Sorry to anyone who's following for the delay...anyway this is my chapter. Mine. ALL MINE! You can't have it...

**LOL. Make a girl happy and review. Pretty please. :D**

**Note: I am officially madly in love with Ricky Donovan. :P**

* * *

**Chapter 4: Gone But Not Forgotten**

"What's the history between you and Grant?" Ricky demanded suddenly of Dr. Fred Mitchell as they sat sharing a drink in the medical examiner's office.

Mitchell wrinkled his nose and surveyed the detective in front of him.

"I knew her father," was his answer.

"I got that," Donovan replied. "No reason to be so dead against the daughter though."

A look of anger flashed across Mitchell's face, which he masked quickly.

"I'm not against her," he said, quite unconvincingly. "The _evidence_ is stacked up against her."

"What, that she has no alibi? Neither does half of Boston!"

Mitchell smiled condescendingly at Donovan. "But there are only two of those whose contract with the deceased was about to end."

"And what, you think that Lola thought she could still work in the Midnight Monkey if the owner is dead?"

Ricky was clutching at straws. He knew that the bar had fallen to Stanley who was a good friend of Lola's and would continue to allow them to work there. Mitchell seemed to know what Ricky was thinking and smiled nastily.

Ricky shook his head, frustrated, and stood up.

"I'll see you around, Doc," he said deprecatingly, and left the room.

----------

"Why was Ricky sticking up for her? Mitchell is right," Garret said. Woody looked at him.

"No he's not," the detective said. "She has the same alibi that the whole club had, basically. It didn't have to be her."

"And the hair?"

"Didn't have DNA testing in those days. We couldn't know whose it was."

"They matched it with another hair on her head," Garret said. Same colour, thickness, everything. Don't you think it's a bit of a coincidence?"

Woody looked away, beaten. Jordan watched the interchange, amusement in her eyes.

"Getting into the characters again, boys?"

She remembered that last time they attempted this, Woody and Garret had an argument over the opinions of their characters.

Woody grinned back. "But the question still stands. Why does Ricky stand up for her so much?"

She shrugged. "At this point," she gestured to the book, "we don't know anything Ricky was thinking. We'll have to go with what Lola perceived."

He nodded. "Let's go."

--------------

He visited her again that night. She was sitting at the bar, talking with Violet, who scarpered at the sight of him.

"Business again, detective?"

"I'm off duty," he said gruffly.

She watched him as he sat down and ordered from the new barman Stanley had hired. Lola was uneasy – she hadn't spoken much to Stanley since the event, and she hoped he did not believe, like Mitchell did, that she killed her father.

"My question is, why have I not been arrested already?"

He frowned, waiting for her to go on.

"Even if it was a blonde hair they'd found, Mitchell would still be pushing that it was me."

"Why?" he asked.

She laughed bitterly. "Because he hates my father."

"You might want to tell me about that," Ricky said. She looked at him.

"Maybe another time," she said. They fell silent, nursing their glasses.

"Do you know what the penalty is for first degree murder?" he asked softly. She looked at him, no sign of fear in her eyes.

"Death," she said, voice not wavering. He wondered at the sudden tinge of coldness in her eyes.

"Yeah," he confirmed. "And that's where you're headed if you don't help me."

She stood abruptly.

"I'll be making my leave now, detective," she said, and turned on her heel, walking out of the bar.

-------------

Violet looked around, making sure no eyes followed her as she went into the dressing room. Unbeknownst to her, a pair was.

The journalist frowned, and, excited, followed Grant's partner as she came out of the 'staff only' area. She got into her car and drove off, sending him scrabbling to get into his own. He followed at a distance, and watched as she drove to the bank of the river, got out, and threw something in.

He parked frantically, not wanting her to get away. Could she be the murderer?

Her head whipped around at the sound of the car screaming to a halt on the dirt near hers. She looked around, and sighed, knowing there was no escape.

"Miss Meridian?" Jake said excitedly, getting out of the car.

"Yes?" she asked coldly.

"Do you want to tell me what you're doing here, and what you just disposed of in the Charles?"

She smiled kindly. "Not particularly."

"Well unless you want: New Suspect in Watson Case blazoned all over tomorrow's newspapers I suggest you tell me."

She blanched. "What?" she asked. "You wouldn't."

He grinned, thinking he had her right where he wanted her.

She looked at the dirt, unable to hide her amusement. "I was throwing a stack of letters in," she said.

"Letters?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"From Stanley," she said. "I don't want Lola finding out we're having an affair."

"Lola has a thing for Stanley?"

"Has ever since they were kids," Violet lied, knowing perfectly well it was the other way around. She could see gain from this.

"Another motive?" Jake wondered aloud.

"Look, don't say anything, alright?"

He grinned and jumped back into his car.

_Alright, _he thought, grinning unashamedly. _We write things nowadays anyway._

-----------

"Wait how do we know this?" Seely interrupted yet again, amidst more groans. "Isn't this Lola's journal?"

"I'm sure the others weren't like this their first times," Bug muttered under his breath to Lily.

"Give it a rest," she hissed back good-naturedly.

"She documented everything," Jordan said. "Jake went to Ricky and told him everything the next day, as well as the rest of Boston. It was the next day's scoop." She held up the book where a newspaper clipping was hastily stuck.

'New Motive For Watson Murder', it read, and outlined a whole, probably fabricated story about the steamy love triangle between Lola, Violet and Stanley.

Woody frowned. "That little weasel," he said. Jordan grinned at the look on Seely's face.

"Ricky in turn told Lola."

"Chinese whispers," Lily said. "Surely Violet wasn't that venomous?"

Jordan raised an eyebrow. "That's only the half of it," she said. Lily scowled.

"Why am I always the crackpot?" she asked. Jordan and Garret caught each other's eye and laughed.

"It gets better," Nigel assured Lily, then grinned at Jordan.

"Alright alright, order in the Midnight Monkey. Back to business or we won't get this finished tonight," Max interjected, and they all nodded.

-----------

Ricky groaned inwardly and shot up, following her outside.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Arrest me," she shot back. He caught up to her and grabbed her arm, pulling her around to face him, even as the thought pulsed through his head.

_What am I doing?_

"Why won't you let me help you?" he asked.

"I don't need your help."

In her weakened state she was perhaps more vindictive than she would normally be, but did not move to take back her words. He seemed unfazed anyway.

"I've seen this happen before," he told her. The light from the streetlamp barely illuminated their faces but it was enough. "They don't care who gets the blame, as long as someone does. Someone must be seen to be punished."

He stopped.

"We," he corrected, knowing that he himself sometimes fell under this way of thinking. As long as justice was dealt, the dead person was avenged. Right?

"And it's going to be me," she said. It wasn't a question.

"At this rate, yeah, it is."

She glared at him. "But I didn't do it," she said through gritted teeth. "The evidence can't say that I did."

"Well it is," he said. "It's safe to say you are in fact the prime suspect."

"Among how many others?" she asked flatly. "What can you do, anyway?"

"I can't prove you didn't do it. Neither can you. We have to find out who did."

She paused, looking at him. "Why don't you think I did it?" she asked.

He frowned, and looked away. "I don't know," he said. It was enough for her, she nodded. They both noticed that he was still holding onto her arm, and he let go hastily.

"Walk me through that night," he said in a low voice. She nodded brusquely and stepped back.

"Right this way, detective."

They walked back into the bar, the light nearly blinding. Both their cheeks were flushed from their argument outside. Violet's eyes narrowed. She had just gotten back and was attempting normalcy by having a drink and chatting to Jim the waiter. Lola scanned the bar, hoping to see a tall dark man bobbing around, and was disappointed when her search turned up nothing.

"From the performance," Ricky said, effectively reminding him of her presence. She nodded and took him through a little hall to the stage, waving a hand at it.

"From here, Vi and I both went through the passage out the back…" She lead him through the stage and into the hall. "Into our dressing rooms." She opened the door and showed him. "There we stayed for about…" she cast around with her mind, trying to recall, as she flopped down in the seat. "An hour?"

He nodded.

"Halfway through that time Stanley came and joined us." Her voice betrayed what she was thinking. "This is pointless," she said.

"Maybe not," he said, gesturing for her to go on.

She sighed. "Ten minutes later some talent scout came in and offered us a job. We, or I, turned him down."

Ricky sat forward. "Why didn't you tell us that?" Ricky asked. "He is another possible suspect!"

She frowned. He continued.

"Motive: if he was dead you couldn't exactly work for him anymore."

"Oh come on," she scoffed. "You're scraping the bottom of the barrel now. He killed a man because he wanted us to work for him? We're not that good."

Ricky shook his head. "It's plausible," he said, standing. "There could be some other underlying reason…"

"Will you listen to yourself?" she said. He stopped.

"Well what's your guess then?" he asked, irritated.

"It's not my job to guess," she said, standing. "That's yours."

She scribbled down an address and handed it to him.

"If you need me, I'm there," she said. "I'm going home."

"Do you think that's wise?" he asked. She turned.

"You might want an alibi," he said.

She raised an eyebrow. He couldn't help himself, he grinned.

"You know, just so you're not the suspect in the next murder that happens," he said.

There was a pause, then she laughed. "So you're going to be my alibi."

"If you want. Can you cook?"

"Not to save my life," she said.

"Good," he said. "Give me a chance to show off."

She turned, trying to hide the look in her eyes.

"Fine," she said. "I've just got to take care of something and I'll be out soon. You can drive, save me the cab fare."

She turned and walked away before he could reply.

Violet watched the interchange from her perch with interest. What were they talking about?

Lola walked through the bar to the 'staff only' area, then walked up the stairs to where Stanley was living. Instead of living in his father's house, which was a few streets away, he made use of the rooms above the bar.

She knocked on the door he used as his study, the place she knew he'd be.

When there was no answer, she knocked again. Stanley opened the door.

She looked into his face. His eyes were bloodshot, but not red-rimmed. He had not been crying, she thought with relief, never knowing how to deal with emotional people. She herself made it a point, ever since childhood, not to cry, and couldn't relate to anyone who did.

"Hey," he said, stepping aside. "Come in." She stepped in the room, noting the papers that were strewn over the desk, handwritten scribbles visible. One of Stanley's dream was to get one of his crime novels published, but had never even sent one of them to a publisher. He always felt as though there was something missing, something not quite right whenever he read back through them.

A number of emotions flitted across Stanley's face at the sight of her. Shock, despair, anger, and it finally settled on suspicion. It cut her that he could believe the papers, the police, over his oldest friend.

"Don't worry," she said coldly as she stepped past him. "I haven't got a knife secreted in my jacket or anything."

"Lola," he began…

"Look I know you're grieving. I know he was your father. But it doesn't mean you have to continue to evade me, continue to hurt me by your willingness to believe other people over me." Her voice had grown low. "I did not kill your father."

He stared at her, she had cut right to the heart of his thoughts, exposed them as she was so good at doing. He loved and hated that quality about her.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and stepped closer to her. "I didn't know what to believe. Of course I don't think you killed him."

He put his arms around her, and she hugged him back.

"I'm sorry this had to happen," she said. He let go of her and held her at arms length.

"Me too," he said. "Me too."

----------

"I hate to say this," Nigel said. "But I'm starting to suspect Stanley."

Jordan and Woody exchanged a glance. "Why is that?" Jordan asked.

He frowned. "I don't quite know. Just some of the things he said."

"Remember we've only got Lola's account of this to go on," she said. "We've only got what she perceived. If it was really us, and your father was murdered and I the main suspect, wouldn't you suspect me?"

"Not in a minute!" he said. "That's what I don't get, they were good friends. Had been since they were children. They were involved, weren't they?"

"That is insinuated, yes."

"How could he believe, even for a fleeting second, that Lola was the murderer?"

"Again, maybe Lola only thought he suspected her."

"Lola seems like she's got her head screwed on. Although handing out her address to some random guy wasn't the best of ideas."

"They had a connection," Woody said. "Right from the word go."

Jordan stiffened at his words, then relaxed. She was getting far too into her character. She got into Joyce Quinn last time they did this, but definitely not to this extent. She wondered at the irony that hers and Woody's character always seemed to hook up.

_Turned out he was a jerk last time, _she thought. _Maybe he's the murderer._

She turned her gaze to Woody. He read her thought in her eyes and shook his head.

"No way," he said. "Not this time."

The two laughed, leaving the rest to wonder what on earth they were on about.

---------

In the car on the way to her very humble home, they didn't speak. It wasn't awkward, they just didn't have anything to say. She grimaced, hoping they'd find something when they arrived.

"So what are you going to cook up, chef Donovan?" she asked as he helped her take her coat off once they stepped inside. He was looking around t her house, and she felt unworthy, for some reason. Her dwelling was small at best, and not in the best neighbourhood. The house was immaculately clean, but not exactly the classiest joint she'd ever seen. She was thinking of asking Violet to move out of the room she stayed in at the Midnight Monkey and in with her, to help with the rent so they could both be more comfortable.

"What do you have?" he asked. She pointed in the direction of the kitchen. He nodded and stepped into it, leaving her in the hall. She went into her room and discarded her uncomfortable clothes, then flopped back onto her bed. It had been a nightmare, the last few days.

Next thing she knew, Ricky was shaking her gently. He had not wanted to wake her, the hard expression that accompanied her in waking was strangely absent in sleep. She looked almost peaceful.

"Dinner's on," he said. Fully awake in an instant, as was her nature, she got up and followed him into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

"Well you're a better cook than me," she said, loving the way his smile went all the way to his eyes.

They ate quietly, but Lola wasn't really tasting the food, as good as it was. She couldn't explain it, but she felt unsettled. Not in a bad way, but she still didn't like it. She wanted to be sure of everything, all the time. She had learned the hard way that any other philosophy led to pain. Which was something she tried to avoid. Didn't everyone?

"What did you think?" he asked. She smiled genuinely.

"Lovely," she said. "Best meal I've ever eaten under this roof, anyway."

"How long have you lived here?" he asked.

"A couple of years now," she said. "Since I came back to Boston."

He grimaced. She gave him just enough information to leave him curious, but not enough, so that he'd be forced to ask more questions.

"Where did you go?"

Her face closed up. "Everywhere. Nowhere."

"Want to be more specific?" he asked.

"No, not really."

He nodded, understanding. There were some things people didn't share.

"Why'd you come back?"

"Stanley tracked me down," she said. "Offered me the job at the Midnight Monkey."

"How'd Miss Meridian come into the picture?" he asked, knowing it was useful to get as much of the puzzle sorted as possible. Their background was certainly illuminating.

"Her parents had kicked her out a couple of weeks before I got back. Stanley was putting her up at the Midnight Monkey, in exchange for some bartending duties. Or rather, Stanley's father. We just kind of fell into the singing gig. We've been a regular act ever since."

"And now?"

She surveyed him. "I sense we're about to lose some business," she said. "Your friend Jake might have something to do with that.

"Carmichael?" he said. "He's harmless."

She made a disbelieving sound in her throat, but didn't contradict him.

She glanced at him, before asking,

"So how long have you been in Boston?"

"Thirty-two years this December," he said, smile playing around his mouth.

"Born and bred Bostonian, then?"

He grinned. "You could say that."

"It's a wonder I have never run into you before. What school did you go to?"

He hesitated, before answering. "I lived at an orphanage in Dorchester," he said. "We were schooled there."

Lola, to her credit, didn't even blink.

"And did you always want to be a cop?"

He considered the question. "No," he said. "It just kind of happened."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence and she stood.

"We'd be more comfortable in the lounge," she said. He nodded and followed her out. She resumed the conversation as they sat down on her only two-seater sofa.

"What happened to your parents?" she asked gently, hoping her usual brusque nature had deserted her, if only for this one fragile question.

"They died," he said flatly. "They were both shot by some burglar. How about you? Parents still living?"

He was hoping to deflect the attention from himself but regretted his callous words as she blanched. Fear flitted in her eyes for a split second before she wiped her face clean and answered him.

"I don't really know," she said. His expression asked her to elaborate. "My mother left my father and I when I was eight," she said. "And I haven't spoken to my father in eleven years."

"Since you were…"

"Sixteen, and old enough to leave home." She smiled sadly. "Probably the stupidest thing I ever did. But looking back, I wouldn't change a thing."

----------

" 'I don't know what it was about him, but his eyes made me want to tell him my whole life story. How my father beat me to unconsciousness when he was drunk, how he drank and gambled away all our money, how he continually cussed me and put me down. He was kind, but it wasn't only that. I sensed something in him, something that made him a kindred spirit to me. He'd seen the rough times too. I'd heard stories about the orphanages in Boston and it wasn't the place you'd want to grow up. That and a whole working life on the streets of Boston ridding the streets of scum and trying not to succumb to it yourself, gave him a bitter, somewhat hard edge. But now and again, something shone through that, and you could see the boy he would have been had he had Violet's lifestyle, or even Stanley's. And that's what scares me. He is so like me, yet so unlike me. He can see into me. He knows what I think, what I feel. Which is, for me, terrifying yet incredibly exciting all at once.'" Jordan finished the passage and looked up, eyes immediately finding Woody's, who looked away.

"The poor girl was a bit confused," Garret said. Jordan looked at him.

"On the contrary," she said. "I think she knew exactly what she meant, even if she couldn't yet record it even in her own journal."

"Couldn't even admit it to herself," Nigel said, shaking his head.

"Admit what?" Seely asked.

Jordan couldn't help herself, she rolled her eyes at Nigel who stifled a laugh.

"Drink break, anyone?" she said. They all agreed and dispersed from the table they were seated around.

"The boy he would have been?" a voice asked, making Jordan turn as she poured herself another round of scotch. She smiled.

"That's what it said," she replied.

"What do you think of Ricky?" Woody asked.

She shrugged. "A compelling character. I have no idea what he would have looked like when he was thirty-two, but Lola's words make him dashingly handsome and very desirable."

"But she's said nothing of the sort in the journal."

"Not yet," Jordan countered. "Even so, you can just tell. Couldn't you?"

He grimaced. "Must be a girl thing," he said. She laughed and reached up, throwing an arm companionably around his shoulders.

"You'll work it out soon," she said. She paused and met his eyes. "Do you think Lola did it?" she asked quietly.

He put his opposite arm around her neck and squeezed, making her squeal. "Not for a moment, kiddo," he said. She grinned and wriggled out from his headlock.

"Who are you 'kiddo'ing? I'll remind you I'm four years older than you."

"Not in 1927 you weren't," he said. "I was thirty-two and you only twenty-seven."

"Well we were much better matched," she said sarcastically. He grinned.

"So do things start to get a little hot and steamy between my girl and this 'dashing, desirable' detective?" he flirted outrageously.

She grinned, loving his infectious good nature. "Not at all full of yourself, are you?"

He threw his head back and laughed.

"Maybe you two should lay off the scotch," Garret came into view, smiling at the scene in front of him. Two of his favourite people having a carefree, worry and tension free conversation, one they could laugh about. It was a rare thing. "Max wants to get going again."

"Well maybe he can be Lola," Jordan said, laughing at the look of mock horror on Woody's face. Garret chuckled too, and the three went back to the main room. Jordan looked about herself.

"It's hard to imagine this place as it would have been for them," she said to the gang, some of whom nodded. "It's changed so much."

"Here you go," Max said, chucking her the journal.

"Hey careful with that," she said. "It's an antique." She opened the book and the eight companions were again thrust into the tumultuous extremes of 1927, in one Lola Grant's living area…

-----------

"Well I can't say that with certainty about anything in my life," he said.

She shrugged, not knowing how to reply to this.

"You see a lot of crap in my profession," he began. "A lot of things that, at the beginning, are etched in your memory for years, haunting you. How could the human condition be so depraved?" He shook his head, eyes alive with his recollections. "Then after a while it becomes numb. You try so hard to put it out of your mind, and it works. You become less emphatic, less able to feel situations."

Her fists were clenched. He unwittingly was touching the very essence of her being, her own philosophy, what she had done all those years back when it had all become too much. He was exactly like her! She shivered unwillingly.

"I don't want that, Lola," he said. The use of her name made her tremble even more. It was at that moment when she knew he had her, had her and would not let her go for a long time to come. Even if he didn't know it yet, she most certainly did.

"You don't want what?" she whispered. The emotion in her eyes was almost unbearable. He noted their proximity and one thought crossed his mind. _How did they get so close, so fast? _He was not only referring to their physical position on the couch. He found himself telling her things he'd not ever told another living soul. And it didn't even bother him.

"To be numb."

"Then don't be," she offered, logically. "Let yourself feel it, feel the crimes, feel the suspects and all the victims a murder has."

"All?"

"The dead guy is obviously the victim victim," she replied. "But all his loved ones are the ones that matter most. He's dead, the dead don't need justice, or avengement. They are oblivious, they know no more. The family is the one that suffers, not the dead guy."

"You're thinking of Stanley," he said, noting her wet eyes.

"It's not fair," she whispered, fearing her voice would break. "He is the sweetest of souls and would never hurt a fly. It's not fair," she repeated.

He reached forward, intending to comfort her, but they were so close, so close, and their lips met, as they were destined to the moment Ricky had offered himself as an alibi. Their kiss was sweet, anticipated and not at all rough or hurried. They were two people who sought comfort, and found it, in a kindred spirit, someone like themselves. For Lola, it felt as though something in her heart snapped, burst, imploded. She had never felt this way, ever. Her relationship with Stanley was not one to even be compared to this, she had only been with him out of a feeling of duty and friendship, and she was sure he felt the same. This was different, something else entirely. Her hand rose and rested against his cheek, rough stubble covering it. He smoothed her hair out of her eyes and their kiss deepened.

The whole thing could not have lasted more than a minute but it felt to them as if it lasted a lifetime.

They broke apart and their eyes locked. They had had no inclination before the event that anything more than a physical connection was present, but when they stared at each other they knew something deeper had occurred. It was enough for Ricky, who stood abruptly to leave. He had broken so many of his morals, so many of his own guidelines, not to mention putting his own investigation at risk. All that aside, he knew he couldn't look at her for a moment longer without something more happening.

"I better go," he said huskily.

"Maybe you better," she agreed numbly, looking away.

He nodded and without a backward glance fled the room. It was only then that Lola let the long suppressed tears slide relentlessly down her face.


	5. Rationality

**Wow - bit of a giant gap between chapters, huh?? I do apologise, and I promise that the chapters wwont be as long in the coming, though I'll be surprised if anyone is still reading! Haha. Anyway. Lets keep the clues coming. And the reviews. Whatever works. **

**I wrote this one - as you can probably tell from the long winded rambling and plain old silliness! But its fun. So, you have fun. Or something.**

* * *

**Chapter 5: Rationality**

She sat on the couch the whole night, dozing on and off. When she was awake, she tried to think, to mull things through in her head. And what had occurred only hours before right there in the very couch she occupied was not on the agenda. She wouldn't allow it to be.  
The whole deal was up in the air. Lola and Violet had not performed since the night Bert had died, and to tell the truth, Lola wasn't really sure she wanted to get back out there. But she needed the money. They both did.

There was a knock on her door and she jumped. Picking herself up off the lounge she answered it, squinting through the morning light and making out her visitor, thanking whatever gods were in existence that it was not Ricky.

"What time is it?" she asked groggily.

"Midday," Stanley said. Lola groaned, putting a hand to her head. She stepped aside, letting her friend in.

"How are you?" she asked.

"I'm okay," he replied almost automatically. She nodded.

"Tea, coffee?" she queried.

He nodded. "Coffee would be great," he replied and followed her into the kitchen, taking a seat at the small table inside.

"How's everything with the bar?" she asked.

"As to be expected," Stanley said. "Short staffed. No one wants to seem to work there." He grimaced. "Can't say I blame them."  
"If you get desperate I'll come help out," she said. He nodded.

"Thanks. Oh that detective was sniffing around earlier this morning as well."

Lola dropped the spoon she was using and it clattered noisily on the floor. She didn't turn around as she picked it up an asked, "Oh?"

"Yeah, he was looking for you."

Her stomach turned and she did not reply, finishing making the beverages and handing one to Stanley before wrapping her hands around hers.

"What did he want?"

"Follow up interview or something."

"Did he leave?"

Stanley shook his head. "Went and spoke to Violet."

"Did you hear?" she asked.

"No, why?"

She shook her head and they lapsed into silence.

"Have you spoken to your brother?" Lola asked. Stanley's face closed.

"I tracked him down. He didn't want to hear about it. Said it was my responsibility."

"He didn't care."

"No."

"I'm sorry," she said. He nodded.

"Anyway I really came to invite you to the memorial I'm holding tonight at the Monkey," he said. "And to show you this." He pulled a newspaper out of his coat and handed it to Lola, who scanned it.

"NEW MOTIVE FOR WATSON MURDER?" the headline read.

Lola met Stanley's eyes and he gestured for her to read on. The article outlined her relationship with Stanley, and added that Stanley and Violet were at the time of his fathers death, actually having an affair. So of course there was the whole 'love triangle' angle happening, and of course Lola had been painted as the jealous ex-lover who wanted to get back at Stanley. It was weak, but it was another nail into her coffin nonetheless.

"Jacob Carmichael," she said. "Where the hell could he have pulled this information from?" she asked, fuming. "Is there any truth to it?"  
Stanley blanched. "Me and Violet?" he said. "Never."

Lola shook her head. "We're going to have to do something about that son of a bitch," she said, lividly angry. Gallows, here I come, she thought grimly.

"He's just a reporter," Stanley says. "Doesn't have much sway."

She nodded, not really believing it.

"How did he get this?" she asked again.

"I don't know, he's a reporter isn't he?"

"Yeah he's got the funny hat and everything," she said dryly. Stanley smiled for the first time in a while, and stood.

"Anyway I better get back," he said. "I have a lot to get done. Oh, and apparently Donovan's coming tonight."

"What?" she asked, far too forcefully.

"Don't ask me. Probably wants to make sure you don't murder any more bar-owners." It was meant to be a jest but Stanley regretted his words at the look on her face.

"I'll be there," she said hollowly, and Stanley knew this to be a dismissal. He pecked her on the cheek before leaving the house.

She arrived early, hoping to be able to help Stanley with the preparations, but he was already done by the time she got there.  
"Violet coming down?" she asked. He shrugged.

The guests began to arrive, adding to the already loud buzz of chat and revelry in the bar. Stanley had not been able to afford to close the bar so had made the service ap public one. He played the perfect host, smiling, making small talk and serving up drinks. Lola drifted, not knowing anyone there.

--------------

"I guess, looking back, I was looking for him. Stanley said he'd be there, and so, in my mind, he would. There was no question. As soon as he entered I felt him, as silly as it sounds now. But it was real, the feelings still raw from last night. Our eyes met over the crowd and suddenly the sound dimmed and it was just he and I. The spell broke when I turned my back abruptly, not able to bear it. There wasn't even anyone I could pretend to talk to. I ordered another drink. I was stuck. I felt his eyes on me and tried to adopt some kind of neutral expression but my hands betrayed me.

'Hey,' he said in a low voice, obviously not trusting himself to meet my eyes.

'Evening detective,' I replied and closed my eyes momentarily, ready for the plunge."

Jordan finished the sentence and, sensing that Lily wanted to speak, stopped.

"How could she let him get to her like that?" Lily asked. "She seemed so strong."

"She'd lost control of her strength. He took it from her."

"Jury's still out on whether that's a good or a bad thing," Nigel said.

"He should have known better, with Mitchell on his back he was definitely risking the case. Risking her life."

"The question is, was it worth it? Maybe if the whole mess had never occurred, they'd both have lived long and lonely lives," Jordan countered.

"Ricky did," he said, guessing, and knowing in his mind how the diary culminated. Jordan sensed this knowledge and nodded slightly.

"You're right. But he had some time," she said. "Do you think it was worth it?"

Woody thought about it, eyes not leaving his friends. "Yes," he said quietly. "I think it was worth it."

She nodded. "Thought you'd see it like that."

Seely sighed, breaking their gaze. "This is getting us nowhere. We're no closer to the killer. What do we have now that they didn't have back then?"

Jordan met his eyes. "Rationality," she said.

-------------------  
He took hold of her arm surreptitiously, so she'd have to look at him.

"Somewhere we can talk?" he asked in a low voice.

Lola, who was trying to avoid the question any way possible was scanning the room, and her eyes darkened when she saw a head bobbing through the crowd.

"Carmichael," she growled, and pulled out of Ricky's grasp. He frowned, and followed her gaze.

"Where?" he asked. The detective was also not happy with the reporter, having seen his 'scoop' of the morning.

"Get him out of here," she said, more to herself than Ricky, but the detective nodded and disappeared into the crowd. Lola backed away, straight into Stanley.

"What's going on?" he asked, noting her flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

"Nothing," she said.

"Stanley," a voice called. It was Violet. Lola looked at the girl but Violet did not meet her friends eyes. Before Lola could implement her intended plan of escape, Ricky returned.

"He's gone," the detective told her, watching the door. "We need to talk."

Lola, not wanting to make a scene in front of Stanley and Violet, nodded serenely and turned her back, listening for the footfall behind her. She took him out into the entertainment area of the club – reasoning that there we nice open spaces. No fences. Plenty of escape routes. She grimaced and shook her head free of the thoughts plaguing it. He was not a hunter and she most certainly was not a frightened deer awaiting the slaughter. She turned to face him.

"Fire away," she said, almost smiling at her irony.

He hesitated. "The paper doesn't help our cause."

She couldn't help raising her eyebrow.

"Oh really? And I thought it was outlining someone else's guilt. Gee, I should definitely start paying more attention. She regretted the tone of voice she'd used but did not apologise. Ricky tried to ignore the sarcasm and focus. Looking at her, all he could see were her round vulnerable eyes from the night before. But the vulnerability was all gone now, and replaced with a cold, hard look, not exactly directed at him but all directed at him at the same time. She was well aware of his discomfort.

"You have to help me help you, Lola. This is not going to go away."

"You're full of insights today aren't you?"

"Tonight," he corrected, nodding towards the window. She followed his gaze to the window where night had fallen.

"What do you expect me to do?" she asked after a pause, regarding him.

"Help me figure out who killed him."

-------------------------  
"The next day I received a letter summoning me to court a month from the day."

"They had the case already?" Woody asked. "What happened to their little murder solving gig? I thought Ricky was on her side."

"I'm guessing that Ricky had little choice in the matter," Jordan replied. "There was nothing he could do except not speed the process up. Rememer Mitchell was the chief ME, he had sway even then with the Boston PD. The rest of the cops, the papers, the doctors, all against her. There was nothing fair about the justice system in 1927."

"But why was Ricky not against her?" Garret said. "How could this 'by the book' detective suddenly throw everything away? Be so compromised? He was risking his career."

"Love tends to do that," Nigel said.

"That's a strong word," Lily said. "They've known each other for what, a week?"

Jordan shrugged. "It happened."

-------------  
"I've finished complying the results of the autopsy," Dr. Mitchell said to Ricky. The detective was standing in the ME's office, and Mitchell was seated behind the desk.

"And?" the detective asked. Mitchell raised an eyebrow.

"Homicide."

"I figured," Ricky replied. "What else?"

"The hair was the only piece of evidence linking anyone to the murder. My statement in court will be that the only suspect whose hair matched was Grant."

"It's not your place to say that," Ricky replied.

"Oh I'm sure the judge wont mind," Mitchell replied.

"The defense might," Ricky warned. Mitchell stopped and looked at the detective.

"You really believe she's innocent," Mitchell said in disbelief. He had always respected the detective and trusted his judgement. "She's got you convinced! She has means, motive and opportunity!"

"Where's the means? Where do you think she got the poison?"

Mitchell sent him a withering look. "Do you know where she went when she left home?" he asked after a pause.

"No," Ricky replied.

"Nor do I. Nor did her father."

"Your point?"

"She hasn't an unexplained chunk or her life! She could be working for the mafia for all we know."

Ricky began to scoff but Mitchell held up his hand. "That is a bit extreme, but you know what I mean." He paused and watched the well-controlled facial expression of the detective. He stood and stepped around his desk, putting a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"She's trouble," was all he said, before walking out of the room.  
-----------

The bashing on her door was enough to jerk her awake. She looked at the old, dying grandfather clock she'd 'procured' from her father's old house. It was 10pm. She was surprised she was even asleep. She went to her door and opened it, not knowing or particularly caring who was a-calling. She was both surprised and unsettled to discover it was Ricky.

"Good evening," she said dryly, eyes sliding to his red hand. "How's the wife and kids?"

He looked surprised, and then his face relaxed into a lazy half-grin. Lola's stomach flipped over.

"They've all moved to England so goddamn it I'm free to do what I want."

Lola surprised herself by laughing.

"And what's that?" she asked; anything to keep that grin on the man's face.

His expression turned serious.

"Save your life."

They stared at each other as the reality of the situation sunk in. Lola stepped aside and he entered.

"Did you murder Bert Watson?" Ricky asked before he'd even got into the room.

She met his eyes and didn't waver.

"No, I did not."

"Why should I believe you?" he asked, hating himself, even though he was only doing his job.

"I don't know," she answered.

"You've got it all," he said. "Means, motive, the whole enchilada, so I've kindly been informed by your friend Mitchell." Ricky paused. "He was gonna cut your contract."

"I had it under control," she said.

"I heard. You told that talent scout. In front of two witnesses. You know you can't ever sing at the Monkey again."

"Which is an anti-motive isn't it? How stupid would I have to be to kill the cantankerous old frog?"

She'd lost her temper. Something she didn't normally do. Cool, calm, collected; Lola's three commandments were the three C's.

"I don't know," Ricky said, walking past her and flopping onto the couch. "Mitchell's getting to me."

Here, in her home, what had seemed like logic before suddenly withered away. She couldn't have done it.

She sat next to him. "Don't listen to him," she said. "He's as bad as my father."

He decided to let comatose dogs lie, sensing she was sensitive on the topic of her father.

"He's good at his job."

"So was he," Lola replied flatly.

Ricky studied her. "I can't do anything to clear you," he said. "It's up to the jury who's probably already convinced that you're guilty, and that you're sleeping with Stanley, and whatever other theories Jake has going."

"Bastard," she said, but more tiredly than venomously. "I'm screwed. Wanna come to Canada?"

"I think we need either Spain or Australia at this point," he said. She smiled weakly.

"Pack your bags."

They were quiet for a while.

"Sorry about last night," he said gruffly, after a while.

She met his eyes. "Nothing to apologise for," she said. "Takes two to tango."

"Nice analogy," he grinned.

"Let's be adults," she said in a low voice.

He smiled, leaned forward and kissed her. There was no awkwardness, or even a giant burst of passion. They could even have been two very intimate friends. The air smelt of companionship.

----------------  
"I won't go much into exactly what happened that night. This book could fall into the wrong hands and then I'm even more screwed than I was. Not to mention Ricky's career. But I'm sure anyone reading this will get the gist."

Jordan smiled. "Yeah I think I got that," she said.

"The idiot!" Woody said. "He should have known better!"

"If Mitchell gets a hold of that she's gone."

"She's gone anyway," Max said, watching Jordan. Seely shrugged.

"Well who else would do it?" he said, looking around. "She's gotta be guilty. I don't know why we're wasting our time."

"Oh well in that case we'll just call it a night then, shall we?" Garret said dryly, giving Seely a cold stare.

"Not likely," replied Nigel.


	6. The Fallen Princess

Author's Note: I can't believe I am uploading this. Six years on. I don't know where the other two are, but I can't leave our tale unfinished. I was a little lame as a 17 year old. Lets see if I can gain a bit of sophistication with chapters 6 onwards.

As Jordan was clearly reluctant to continue reading the diary, Max suggested that a drink break was imminent. The group broke up and took advantage of their free time in various ways. Seely, still looking rather irritated but in a "slightly left out" kind of way, was rifling through newspaper clippings. Bug wandered off, presumably to the bathroom. Nigel entertained himself and Lily by requesting from Max various elaborate cocktails, all of which Max, ever ripe to a challenge, tried to concoct.

"This all seems too shallow to me," Garret said to Jordan. "We're missing something."

"We only have Lola's take on this at this point," Jordan agreed. "Most of what was really going on would have gone straight over her head. ME dad or no ME dad, she was a singer."

"Seems to have her head screwed on," Woody interjected from his position on the floor, leaving up against the stage.

Jordan shrugged dismissively. "Doesn't matter," she countered. "We're missing all of the lingo, the know-how. Which is why we're getting the Days of our Lives version of this tale rather than the facts." She caught her boss's eye. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking, B1?"

"Are the next parts of the journal happy?" Garret asked. Jordan shook her head, her eyes giving away what was contained next.

Jordan approached Woody. "How much are you in Donovan's head?"

Woody frowned. "I don't understand some of his motivation," he replied. "I get that he was totally alone, but it seemed so easy for him just to let her in."

"Again, we have only her take on the situation. And you heard the monologue about 'letting someone in', as tedious and cliché as it was."

Garret raised an eyebrow at Jordan's slightly condescending tone. "If you're going to keep a journal like that, at a time like that, I'm sure you're not going to be thinking about the sensibilities of the people reading it sixty years later trying to form some kind of plot out of it. She didn't care if she was being lame."

"Sometimes we are just lame," Woody agreed, quite lamely.

Jordan suddenly noticed that Max and Nigel were on the edge of their conversation, Nigel holding a tall glass with something that resembled algae in it. Jordan put her nose to the rim of the glass, before drawing back in mock disgust and staring at her father.

"Where on earth did you find that?" she asked incredulously. "Leading a double life as a mad scientist, apparently."

The group, who had filtered back to their positions, chuckled. Jordan looked around herself at the faces of her colleagues. She smiled airily.

"Enough about me," she said decisively. "It's time to hear this story from the mouth of the Detective."

"What?" Woody protested. "I don't know what happened next!"

"Yes, you do," Garret pointed out, on Jordan's wavelength. This show needed mixing up a bit. "You have all the case files, which you have already digested. All you need to do is inject a bit of imagination into it."

Jordan smiled at her boss, who could sometimes be a bit stuffy. The words 'use your imagination' were not easy words for Garret.

Woody was frowning, concentrating hard. Jordan rolled her eyes, exasperated.

"Why don't you start, Dr. Mitchell?" she said to Garret, who met her eyes.

"Mitchell doesn't have as much to say," he replied, then shrugged. "But if our resident doe-eyed detective isn't feeling up to it…"

"Take us back to 1927, Dr. Macy," Jordan said, and sat back in her chair.

It wasn't just a throwaway comment; what he had said to Donovan, despite his tone being as casual as it was. Mitchell really did not know where Lola had hidden herself for nine years, before re appearing in Boston as if nothing had happened. What was most perplexing for him was that she had re appeared at all. And that she seemed to have no remorse whatsoever for what happened to her father.

Mitchell was sitting at his desk, the moonlight drifting in through his open window and casting a sliver of pale light over the papers he was perusing. He swivelled in his chair and looked out. The light seemed to struggle between the particles of smog thick in the air. The city was quiet, but not deserted. Below, on the streets, the creatures of the night had emerged. The party goers. The dark figures in the alleyways and in the thresholds of bars, slinking about as if not realising that the restrictions of prohibition had been lifted. The prostitutes, plying their filthy trade to the underbelly of Boston.

His lip curled in disdain. The amount of murdered whores he had sliced open in order to create a report for the state as to why they had died. If only he could simply state stupidity and filth as a cause of death. He could not understand it, he would never understand it. What was so wrong with the world? He was under no illusion that it was a modern problem. There had been filth as long as there had been humanity. It did not mean that he had to like it.

Shaking his head as if to dismiss his useless musings, he turned back to his desk and nearly had a kitten upon seeing a figure standing at the door. The light was thus that the man was just a dark silhouette.

"Donovan," Mitchell said, as the figure came closer and further into the light.

The detective looked awful. He clearly had not slept in days.

"What on earth is the matter, man?" Mitchell demanded as Donovan put a hand to his head. Donovan's knuckles went white and he made a massaging motion on his forehead. Stress induced headache? Mitchell wondered, and his eyes narrowed. He didn't know what was going on in the younger man's mind, and he wasn't sure he wanted to.

"Violet," Donovan said. Mitchell cursed explosively. He got quite irritated when he was interrupted from introspection.

"We have been over this, damn it," Mitchell said. "My mind is made up, O'Daley's mind is made up, the DA's mind is made up and the public's mind is made up." The ME paused to allow his words to sink in. "It's just yours that is all over the place."

Donovan said nothing for a while, but his eyes burned as if there was a bonfire in each of them. Mitchell's frown deepened.

"Damn it, Mitchell, do you think I give a crap what the public thinks? I'm telling you, we have not looked enough into that girl."

Mitchell signed deeply and straightened up in his chair. His patience was being tested. He knew who had killed Bert Watson. And it was not dainty, well-to-do Violet Meridian.

"Talk to me," he invited Donovan, humouring him. He had always had a lot of respect for the detective, who was damned good at his job. Almost as good as Mitchell himself was at his.

"She had means, motive and opportunity," Donovan began, and Mitchell could not stop an exasperated roll of his eyed. Donovan pushed on. "She came from a rich background, but is estranged from her family. What we didn't know, is that she is NOT estranged from her mother."

Mitchell frowned.

"Meridian and her father had a falling out when her mother fell ill. She left, and her father never forgave her. They had had a rocky relationship anyway. Her mother died soon after, but not before securing her only daughter's future with a large sum of cash, given to her unbeknownst to her father. Meridian has been sitting on it ever since, playing the fallen princess."

"I am not seeing the link, here, Donovan."

"She left home, and where did she go? Straight to Stanley and her father. She had always been the third wheel in the friendship with Grant and the Watson boy, but with Lola out of the picture, Violet stepped in. Stanley was happy to help his friend, but Violet always knew what, and who, he really wanted."

"You're saying Meridian is in love with Stanley Watson?"

Donovan shook his head, frowning. "No… well, I don't think so. She's always played second fiddle to Lola. Violet had the better background, but Lola has the personality." Mitchell watched Donovan closely, but the detective was choosing his words and his delivery extremely carefully, it seemed. "Now she was literally playing second fiddle… well, in terms of their music, anyway. Lola has the voice, Violet has… well I'm not sure, really. She's a pretty enough thing to look at but…"

Donovan's mouth snapped closed and his eyes hardened. "She is insanely jealous."

Mitchell exhaled. "So," he began matter-of-factly. "You're saying that sheltered little second fiddle Violet Meridian murdered her boss in cold blood to get back at her best friend for being a better singer?"

Donovan sighed, and met Mitchell's eye. There was a sort of resignation in the young detective's voice when he continued.

"She's hiding something, Fred," Donovan said. The use of the MEs first name concerned Mitchell. Donovan was desperate for him to understand. But Mitchell did not. "She threw something into the Charles, and was caught red handed. Letters, she claimed."

"How do you know?"

"Carmichael."

"That idiot reporter?"

"Idiot, pain in the ass, whatever you want to call him. He's a weasel, that's for sure."

"Look, Donovan, this is really quite simple. Grant needs the money. God knows she has nothing as it is. Watson was about to throw her out of the bar, on the street. Grant couldn't let that happen, and Watson Jnr couldn't convince his father to keep her. Grant, having no love for her friend's father, realised that he had to be removed. Slipped some poison in his drink. Her work complete. Her job secure, no one had to know it was her."

Donovan stood up. He was ready to leave. Mitchell knew he wasn't convinced.

"That's just it, Mitchell. Why on earth wouldn't she guess that she would be a prime suspect? She is no fool."

"She is more of a fool than you think," Mitchell said in a knowing kind of fashion.

"She is no fool," Donovan repeated, his voice almost a growl in its intensity. He turned on his tail and left Mitchell to stare after him.

What on earth has gotten in to him, Mitchell wondered, incredulously. He shook his head, resolving a good night's sleep would do him no harm, and left the office.

"I thought this was supposed to be less like Days of our Lives," Nigel said. "All that did was complicate things, Mitchell, I mean, Garret." Nigel grinned at his joke.

Woody glanced at Garret.

"Mitchell is not going to budge, is he? Why is he so unwilling to examine any other possibilities?"

"He is too close to the project," Garret replied. "He was extremely close with Lola's father."

"Sounds like Dr. Grant took it a little bit too hard that his daughter left home, considering what an arsehole he was," Bug interjected.

"It's not that," Garret said, holding a clipping up. "Grant died. Really, really stupidly. Drunken barfight."

"Seriously?" Lily said. "That's a little bit cliché."

"Yeah," Jordan said. "Lola's entire life was a little cliché, it seems. But Mitchell blamed her in a way."

Garret nodded. "His friend was never the same after she left as well as her mother."

"But he was an arsehole," Bug reiterated.

"So what now?" Seely this time, whose voice had lost the edge of someone who was not enjoying themselves. Jordan grinned at him.

"Time for Ricky to figure out what he's going to do next." Jordan poked Woody hard in the shoulder, and he inclined his head.

"I'm ready," he said.


End file.
